Dangerous, and You Know It
by AGriffinWriter
Summary: College is a whole new adventure for Sunnydale's Slayer. New classes, new friends… and a illegally hot history professor who seems to know more about her than he reveals, and whose list of secrets rival Buffy's. Will they give in to their forbidden love? Of course they will; this is a Spuffy fic, duh. Inspired by marilynmay's Buffy/Smallville prof!Spike gif set. Not All!Human.
1. Chapter 1

**Dangerous, and You Know It**

By AGriffinWriter

* * *

Chapter One

_"Death is your art. You make it with your hands, day after day…"_

1898, Romania

They closed in around the gypsy camp, four killers that carried centuries of death and chaos with them. Darla took the northern-most corner and waited for the chilling screams that would signal her favorite childe's hunt had begun. Drusilla trailed her grandmummy until the older vampiress ordered her to remain on the west, just outside the light of the campfires. Angelus stalked off arrogantly to the east, his belly already full with the blood of the virgin girl Darla had brought to him, but this taste only seemed to make him more eager for bloodshed.

_The glutton_, Spike thought snidely, taking his post at the south edge of the clearing. These people couldn't fight off _one_ vampire, let alone four well-versed in killing. They're peddlers and musicians, dabbling in magic tricks. It would be a bloodbath, the perverted form of art that Angelus and Darla and Dru would revel in until dawn forced them back into the shadows. _Gimme a good fight any day_…

And then his head split apart, white-hot agony cleaving his skull in two. Spike fell to his knees and roared at the sky, demon and man united in pain. Other screams touched his ears, and he fought for clarity, for anything to focus on besides his tormented head.

_Dru… Drusilla… they're hurtin' her… oh dear God, not… oh… oh God…_

It was all coming back. Every fight, every kill, every bleeding victim he'd cast aside in alleyways and dark corners, every vacant eye of every corpse he'd left in his wake…

Spike's body caved, and he retched into the grass, but he couldn't empty his stomach of enough blood to wipe his soul clean…

* * *

1900, China

"I'm _tryin'_ to _help you!_" Spike bellowed at the sword-swinging Slayer, a girl who couldn't be more than fourteen years old. In buildings all around the one where he fended off the young Slayer's attacks, flames rose to lick the sky. _Darla always loved a nice dose of chaos_.

The blonde vampiress was the only one of the Whirlwind whose new soul hadn't stuck, and while her three heirs were weeping over their remembered sins, she'd torn apart the gypsy camp and ripped the head off the elder when he'd refused to undo the curse. For the last two years, Spike had spent his waking hours taking turns with Angel, either subtly cleaning up the wake of Darla's destruction, or holding his poor Drusilla as she sobbed and repented and clawed her own flesh. Until the night he hadn't returned in time, and his mad sire had evaded Angel while he slept and offered herself to the sun. And it seemed to Spike as though his heart had burned up with her.

Continuing on their own, the two males took to the streets after the Irishman's bloodthirsty lover, finally reaching this burning village on the edge of the revolution. They'd split up over an hour ago to search among the refugees, shortly before this girl had leapt out of nowhere and confronted Spike one-on-one.

He knew instantly that this girl was a Slayer. It was written in every pose she struck and every glare she shot his way – that she could sense the demon in him as clearly as he recognized the supernatural power within her.

"Quit fightin' me, girl! I'm not the one you're after!"

The Chinese Slayer couldn't understand his language, only his pissed-off tone, so she kept up her dance, her sword swishing in the air like a fluid extension of her arm. Spike reeled back as the tip of the blade sliced open his eyebrow, and his vampire face surged to the surface at the smell of his own blood.

"Ow! Dammit, girl, I'm here to _HELP!_"

An explosion shook the entire building, and a spurt of fire and debris tore through the window directly behind the girl. She screamed, trying to shield herself from the flames, glass, and rubble, and Spike dove behind a column until the searing heat had abated slightly.

The Chinese Slayer lay on the floor, her body made almost unrecognizable by blood and burns.

"Hey…" Spike crawled toward her on his knees, wary of her sword. "H-hey… Girl?… Slayer?"

She barely had the strength to lift her face to him, and with her last breath her lips mumbled words he could not translate.

"I'm sorry, luv," he whispered in genuine remorse as the light faded from her eyes. "I don't speak Chinese."

* * *

1977, New York City

Rain poured down on the abandoned park, a single street lamp the only light source as the two destined enemies faced each other.

"I've spent a long time trying to track you down," Nikki Wood called to the vampire clad all in tight leather and silver chains. "Don't take kindly to a vigilante in my city."

Spike shrugged. "Since when do Slayers defend the odd rapist or murderer? I've got twice the soul any of those wankers had, luv. Ought to be thankin' me."

"I ain't your love."

She withdrew a stake from the deep pockets of her long leather duster and flung it straight at his heart. Spike trapped the wood between his palms only an inch from his chest.

"Got the moves, don't you?" he grinned, shaking water from his bleached hair. "Been watchin' you, too, pet. You're cunning, resourceful. But fightin' with me's just stupid, Slayer. We're on the same side."

"You're not killing humans on my turf, vampire. Get outta New York."

"Aw, don't want the dance to end so soon, do you, luv? The music's just startin', innit?"

Still smirking, he tossed the stake back across the wet pavement, and it clattered to a halt at her feet.

"I'm serious, Nikki. Don't make an enemy of me. Go home to your Watcher's and keep close to your kid." _If you knew the depth of the evil in this place, the extent of the livin' an' unlivin' nightmares you an' your Watcher can't begin to imagine…_

"Get lost, demon!" shouted Nikki.

Spike backed away, knowing he'd scared the Slayer by mentioning her son. _A'least now she might listen to me_.

"By the way," he said, leaning on the lamp post and throwing her one last smirk, "love the coat."

… Three days later, he stepped solemnly into Bernard Crowley's apartment, unimpeded by any barrier… and cleaned up the three pools of blood that the rampaging Hellions had left behind. He buried what was left of the bodies in Central Park, slipped the dead Slayer's duster over his own shoulders for remembrance, and drove out of New York alone.

* * *

1999, Sunnydale

Buffy Summers woke up hoping that the first day of college would be significantly better than the _day before_ the first day of college. She'd gotten lost on the way to her dorm, dropped books on the head of one of her TAs, and had a painfully awkward meeting with her roommate, who snored like a train all night long. But today… today would be different.

"I think you charmed him," she smirked to Willow, pointing after the tall psychology teaching assistant after they crossed paths with him outside their first class. "Should I warn Oz to watch out?"

Willow blushed and elbowed her best friend. "Don't be a meanie. Besides, I think Riley was looking at _you_."

"Me?" Buffy snorted. "Let's see… Brainless Buffy who drops books on his head, or Witty Willow who knows all there is to know about treatises and operant conditioner…"

"_Conditioning_," Willow corrected her, sniggering as Oz joined them and hugged the redhead.

"See my point?" said Buffy. She unzipped her backpack and fumbled for her class schedule amid textbooks and spiral notebooks. "But Psych isn't until later. World History's first…"

"Hey, Buffy, hold up a second. Look this way."

Confused, Buffy turned to fully face Willow, who looked at both sides of her face and pointed at one of the Slayer's earlobes.

"Buff, you've lost an earring."

"Really?" Buffy touched her own ear, only to confirm Willow's discovery. "Darn. Did you see it fall?"

"No… Look, our class is right here. You've got five minutes. We'll save you a seat, and you can check the hallway. If you don't find it, we'll help you after."

Buffy sighed. "It's probably a lost cause. An earring in a haystack, or… something. But I'll look."

As Willow and Oz entered the classroom, Buffy spun around and weaved her way between rushed students, glancing at the hallway baseboards in search of the elusive silver stud.

"Come on… where are you… stupid little piercing…"

Three minutes later and she hadn't found so much as an oversized dust mite. Grumpily, Buffy gave up the search and turned back, taking a left when she reached a T in the hallway.

_Or… did I come from the left… so I should go right? I didn't go through double-doors, did I?_

Cursing under her breath, Buffy wheeled around and yanked her schedule out of her bag again. Her finger skimmed the page until she found the correct classroom number for her due-to-start-any-moment history course. She set off at a more brisk pace, glancing at the plaques beside the doors until she was at the right one. She peered through the little window to see that nearly every seat was taken, and the attention of every student was riveted to the front of the room.

Swallowing nervously, Buffy turned the door handle, thanking her lucky stars when nothing squeaked or creaked.

"Do you know where the greatest supercomputer in the world resides?" the professor was saying in a lightly accented voice, his back to the classroom as he scribbled three words on the chalkboard – _Professor William Milton_. "It's right in your head. It's the human brain. Yet we only use ten percent of it…"

She was going to make it. Just two more seats to shimmy past, and she would be next to Willow, and Professor William Milton would be none the wiser that she'd missed the first minute or two of lecture…

"Good morning, _Miss Summers_. Did we start too early for you?"

Buffy jumped and froze in place, literally an inch from the empty seat, and guiltily raised her eyes to the man standing in front of the chalkboard. He was facing her now, leaning casually against his desk, the nub of chalk held between his index and middle fingers like a cigarette.

_Holy hell_…

The professor was an absolute god. He was unbelievably young for a teacher – late-twenties at the most – with impeccably clean-shaven skin, soft-looking lips, and angular cheekbones. His dark gelled hair had the faintest curl to it, especially at the nape of his neck. He wore indigo jeans and a white button-up under his sports jacket, with enough buttons undone to expose all of his throat and just a tease of his chest. A small Y-shaped white scar touched the edge of his left eyebrow, above a pair of icy blue eyes that held her in place like a butterfly pinned to a corkboard.

_Oh god, he was hot…_

_Wait… what had he asked her?_

* * *

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you all for your reviews and feedback! To anyone who wasn't sure, Buffy is still the Slayer in this AU. Seasons 1-3 happened as canon, except without Spike/Dru showing up.  
Some dialogue taken from Smallville: Aqua and BtVS: The Freshman. Again, thanks to ezriela and marilynmay for prompting this story idea!

* * *

Chapter Two

_"How do you get to be renowned? I mean, like, do you have to be 'nowned' first?"_

"Miss Summers?"

"Sorry," Buffy mumbled, blushing. "I kinda got lost."

"Mmhm."

_Oh god, he's biting his lip…_

"If there are any other wayward travelers, this is Introduction to World History," said the professor in his highbrow British accent. He finally turned his scorching gaze away from Buffy, who slithered into her seat like a limp noodle. "I am Professor William Milton. But before we delve into my lectures about the Greeks and Romans – which I'm sure you'll find very enlightening – let's look at the word _history_."

He turned back around to scrawl 'HISTORY' on the chalkboard below his name, but Buffy was preoccupied with the view of his back, especially the way his dark wash jeans hugged his ass just slightly.

_Oh my god, I'm going to fail this class and love every minute of it…_

"History…" Professor Milton faced his students again and tapped the chalk nub on the board, "is not about _facts_. It's about the _context_, and _who_ is telling the story. So…"

His eyes swept the class, complete silence meeting his poignant pause.

"What.. is.. history? What is _his_ story?" He nodded at a boy sitting two rows in front of Oz, and then almost immediately ensnared Buffy with his gaze again. "What is _your_ story, Miss Summers? How will you affect the world around you for generations to come?"

_Ohmygod-Ohmygod-Ohmygod…_

"You have no idea," she stuttered the first sentence that came to her mind that didn't include vampires, demons, and the forces of darkness, though an instant later she realized how arrogant she came across and promptly turned pink again. "I m-mean… I don't know if you can know that at eighteen."

He gave her a soft but guarded smile, as though enjoying an inside joke that only gorgeous underage history professors would understand.

"An honest opinion… I like that. But imagine how different the world might be if someone had said that to Alexander the Great, or Joan of Arc… well, I'm getting ahead of myself. I trust that all of you have purchased the required text for this course?"

Around eighty backpacks rustled as students scrambled for their books.

Luckily for Buffy, Professor Milton spent most of the first class running over the syllabus, explaining his grading criteria for the course, and discussing the first assignment. She couldn't take her eyes off him, and by the sounds of numerous sighs around her, neither could most of the other girls in the class. He held their attention like an actor delivering a rousing soliloquy from center stage, commanding the whole room without raising his voice. And the way he walked… like a prowling panther, owning the space around him, each step timed and precise, every tilt of his head and shrug of his shoulders etching itself in her memory.

"If there are no questions, class dismissed," said Professor Milton at ten minutes to eleven, and an audible sigh of disappointment rumbled over the class. He turned back around to erase the chalkboard as the students put their books away and started to leave.

"Buffy, come on," Willow prompted, noticing that her best friend hadn't left her seat yet. "We've got Psych in ten minutes."

"I'll catch up. It's just down the hall, right?"

Willow gave her a skeptical, _you're-going-to-be-late-again_ look, but shrugged and joined Oz in the doorway, leaving Buffy in the almost empty classroom. As Professor Milton finished wiping the blackboard, marking missed students in his roll book, and packing up his laptop bag, Buffy waited, gnawing her lip.

"Can I help you, Miss Summers?" he asked when she made no progress toward the door.

"Oh, uh… I was just… I'm sorry I was late. Me, wrong foot, you know."

"Never apologize," he replied, the tiniest smirk on his lips. "If you're going to show up late, at least do it with conviction, Miss Summers. Besides, I always have to make an example of someone."

His tongue curled behind his teeth, and her knees almost buckled.

"H-how do you know my name?"

_Oh god, that man and his grin should not be legal…_

"Tell me, what was the first thing you did for orientation yesterday?"

Buffy blanched and racked her brain. _Yesterday was kinda a blur of freshman failure_.

"Uh… I got my picture taken for my school ID," she admitted lamely, certain that this wasn't what he must mean.

"Exactly," he nodded, continuing to melt her with his smile and sexy British voice, "and that photo is in a database which I check before the semester begins. That way, I can call my students by their proper names. Helps the learning process."

Buffy turned a little pink, impressed that he'd correctly identified her face out of eighty college kids on the first try. He sat on the edge of his desk and interlocked his fingers over one knee, his crystal blue eyes never leaving her face.

"Did you get a copy of the syllabus, Miss Summers?"

"Yes. A-and it's Buffy," she mumbled. _Although, on second thought, hearing him say my name is probably gonna send me one step further toward Crushville_.

"Alright… Buffy."

_Ohhh… yup. U.S.S. Buffy on course for Crushville._

"Is there anything else you need from me?" he asked slowly. As she stared at him, trying to form an answer that didn't sound absolutely besotted, his head tilted just slightly, his eyes calculating and guarded.

"No," Buffy shook her head. "No, I… I just, uh, enjoyed the lecture."

He chuckled lightly. "Then I look forward to your appraisal of my teaching skills once we actually get into the course material, Buffy. Shall we?"

He stood with his laptop bag in his right hand and held the door open for her. His smile was tight-lipped, and she fearfully wondered if she was making him late for something, like a department meeting.

"Bye," she mumbled, considerably more flustered now than she'd ever been when facing rabid vampires or gigantic monsters. The last thing she observed as she slipped past him was his left hand on the doorknob. On one of his fingers was a thin gold band with a green gem inside more gold filigree, and Buffy realized with an illogically heavy sinking in her heart that a man who was so young… and intelligent… and attractive… was probably already married.

_As if he wasn't already unattainable…_

* * *

Spike shut the classroom door, waited until the curious blonde freshman – until Buffy Summers – had skittered away towards her next class, and then strolled at an aggressive pace in the opposite direction.

_The SLAYER! Whole world of teachin' positions open… an' I land the one where the soddin' Slayer has to be enrolled in my bloody class!_

Every muscle in his body was tense, and he stopped at a break in the hallway where an open archway overlooked the campus quad. He rested his elbows on the bricks, his fingers and lungs itching for a cig… but he'd stubbornly left what remained of his last pack in his duster, which was currently hanging on the back of his bedroom door in his flat. Unable to curb his craving, he just raked one hand through his dark hair, digging his fingers into his scalp.

He'd refused to believe it when he'd flipped through the class roll yesterday – his near-photographic memory letting him quickly associate names with faces – and seen the name _Buffy Summers_ and the picture of the smiling blonde, the love and soul-mate of his sulking grandsire. He'd told himself it had to be a mistake, a joke, or a mirage brought about by his frequent insomnia. Even for a vampire, the amount he slept was meager, often interrupted by nightmares of the worst atrocities he'd committed in the eighteen years between his death and his curse.

When he'd arrived in his classroom an hour ago and watched the students milling in, relief had filled his chest when the little box beside Buffy Summers's name in his roll sheet had remained free of a check-mark. And yet, mere minutes after he had started lecturing – spouting off a statistic he knew wasn't true but was just intended to spark hard work in the undergraduate blighters – he'd heard the door and breathed in that trace of a scent he knew instantly from China and New York, that essence that each Slayer made their own. Buffy's was fresh and light, like a meadow of blooming wildflowers after a spring rain…

Spike bit his lip at the memory, disgusted by his poncey, poetic thoughts.

Regardless, she was there, and in his irritation he'd made a fool of her, almost dared her to march down to the front of the classroom and attempt to stake him right then and there. He was sure she'd sussed out something odd about him, from the way her bright jade eyes had never deviated from him for the entire fifty minute period, long enough to make him sweat. When she'd hung back, his suspicions had multiplied, but she hadn't seemed aggressive, just awkward… and surprisingly interested in world history.

He glanced down at his watch briefly and then at his emerald ring, the Gem of Amara, his only souvenir from a near-decade spent defending the Hellmouth in Cleveland, Ohio. Since he'd never encountered a Slayer since he'd possessed the ring, he now wondered if among its many properties there might be some power that masked his vampire nature from one such as the Slayer. But that still didn't explain the fascinated look that Buffy had leveled at him from the moment their eyes had met…

Spike felt a demanding buzz in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, his brows narrowing. He didn't recognize the caller ID, and he didn't give his personal number out to just anybody. Suspiciously, he flipped the phone open.

"Milton," he muttered gruffly.

"William, you bore!" a girlish giggle answered him. "Is that what you're calling yourself now? Your standards certainly are deteriorating. Even 'Spike' is better than 'Milton'."

Eyes closing, Spike stepped around the corner of the archway and leaned one shoulder against the brick façade.

" 'Lo, Cecily," he murmured into the phone, dropping into the cockney accent he'd adopted for most of his unlife. "How are you, pet?"

"Fine, fine. You know I go by 'Hallie' these days. Much less starchy. _Surely_ you haven't really changed your name to Mi–"

"No, I'm still William. Professor William Milton. Got myself a gig teachin' history and poetry in California, little nowhere town. A'course, just my luck it happens to be a soddin' Hellmouth."

"Ah, I wondered. Heard you were there but didn't know why. But listen, I'm coming down to that dreary little place in Sunnydale to see another long-time friend, and… well…"

She paused, and Spike knew she was about to play coy with him. Holding grievances was pointless for immortals – something he'd sussed out in regards to Angelus, that keeping up a rancor against the vampire who'd made him a monster only ate away at his own insides instead of Angel's – but Cecily was different. They'd crossed paths in Italy in the fifties, and she'd made the startling confession that she was not the Cecily Addams that his spineless human self had been so besotted with, but in fact she was Halfrek, a Vengeance Demon of the D'Hoffryn Order, Patron of Wronged Children. So when she'd suggested they shack up, the bit of him that was still William Pratt had leapt at the chance… and been sorely disappointed. Hallie or Halfrek or whatever she called herself… she was nothing like the woman he'd built her up to be in his mind. She was flighty and caustic, she killed mortals without a second thought, and she gave him only the leftovers of her time and her love.

But beyond all of that, even if he dwelt on only the happy parts of their time living together… he could never forget Drusilla, never let his heart heal from the death of his sire. Their love had fit eternity into eighteen blissful years, and left a permanent aching void in his chest that no other could ever fill. So he'd called it off with Halfrek, keeping only a cordial acquaintanceship, occasionally sharing drinks if they happened to cross paths once they'd both relocated to the American continent.

"I… I don't suppose there's any chance you could spare clean towels and half a bed, for old times' sake?" said Hallie at last.

_Bloody knew it_.

"Since when have you ever been content with 'alf the bed, luv?" he replied, rolling his eyes at the clear blue sky.

"I didn't hear you complaining the last time we shared."

He sighed and rubbed his forehead, further disheveling his hair. _You HEARD, you just didn't listen._

"Cecily…"

"It's 'Hallie', _Milton_," Halfrek countered, no doubt pursing her lips at him from wherever she was calling. "If you're going to be a whiney little boy about it, I'll find somewhere else to stay."

"I'm not the one gettin' shirty, here, princess," he muttered. "And I haven't said 'no' yet, only that we're not sharin' a bed again. Got a spare room in my flat you can kip in."

In truth, he didn't… but considering the little sleep he managed to get these days, he wouldn't begrudge lending her his bedroom for a few nights.

"You're a saint," Hallie cooed.

"Just promise not to kill anyone in Sunnydale and we'll call it even. When can I expect you?"

"Next Saturday, half past six in the afternoon. Can you pick your girl up at the airport, dear Will?"

_You're not my girl, and I'm not your dear Will. My girl's been dead for a century._

"Sure, Hallie."

"You won't forget and leave me stranded, will you?"

"No. I'll remember."

"Can't thank you enough. Ciao, lover!"

She hung up before he could growl out that they'd never for one moment been lovers, no matter how many times she'd taken him to bed. His stomach felt like it was full of toxic bile, and he considered just leaving the campus for the day, since he sincerely doubted any of the students would come knocking on his door for office hours this early in the semester. He didn't dare keep blood in the mini-fridge in the history department's lounge, so the closest meal was at his flat.

_Day One of professor-ing, and I'm already rarin' to call it quits. God help me…_

Unlikely to receive any aid from that source, Spike was about to return his phone to his pocket when he paused, and after another few moments of tight-lipped deliberation he reached for his wallet, dug out a small white card that he'd received in the mail a day previously, and dialed the number. As it rang, he spun the little business card in his hand, trying to determine what the minimally sketched butterfly-lobster design was really supposed to be.

"Angel Investigations. We help the hopeless."

"Er… is Angel there?" Spike asked, thrown off guard for the second time in as many phone calls by the chipper female voice on the other end of the line.

"He's out at the moment. I'm Cordelia. I can take a message for him."

"Uh… right." Spike sighed and leaned his head back against the brick façade. "Could you tell him… tell him it's Drusilla's widower. I'm teaching a new student, and she's like the special girl from China. You got that, pet?"

The young woman's humming was his only answer for a few second, and then she replied, "Okay-dokey. Drusilla's widower. New student. Special girl from China. Can I take a number for him to call you back?"

"He knows how to reach me. Ta, luv."

Closing the flip-phone, Spike turned around, enjoyed one more moment of sunshine, and grudgingly re-entered the academic building.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you all for your reviews and feedback. I know it's been a while. I had my finals-induced hiatus, my post-finals relaxing semi-hiatus, and now I just started a full time job, which would be totally awesome if I didn't have an hour commute both ways and almost no free time or energy for creative writing. I'll keep going my best, but updates on EF and FF are likely going to be pretty scarce. I won't give up, though. Eventually everything will be written.

Some dialogue taken from Smallville: Aqua and BtVS: The Freshman.

* * *

Chapter Three

_"__I'm very excited to hear what you have to say that's worth interrupting my lecture for."_

Compared to Professor Milton's class, Psych 101 with Professor Maggie Walsh was like having Principal Snyder as your dentist.

"Well, um…" Willow said a little skeptically as she, Buffy, and Oz left the classroom, "she seemed… assertive."

"Dubbing herself _The Evil Bitch-Monster of Death_ on the first day of class?" said Buffy. "Intense is a massive understatement." She sighed, wistfully thinking of the handsome male teacher from earlier that day. "Guess they can't all be dreamy."

"Maybe she's just not as great about first impressions as Professor Milton," suggested Willow brightly, reading Buffy's direction of thought easily. "But they're both clearly experts in their fields. You can just tell when someone like that talks, that they've got so much knowledge just archived away, ready to burst out."

"Yeah… I just wish I hadn't been late," she pouted. "Now he must think I'm all delinquent-y."

"You'll just have to prove him wrong." Willow waved goodbye to Oz as he headed for the cafeteria while she accompanied Buffy out onto the quad. "Do you have any other classes today? I have…" She consulted her course schedule, "Calculus, over in Grant Hall."

"I'm all done," nodded Buffy, "except for patrolling, obviously. It'll feel weird… not sneaking out of my window with a bag-full of weapons every night. I just have to avoid Kathy."

She sighed again. With any luck, she'd be so exhausted from hunting monsters tonight that she'd drop off to sleep without being kept alert and annoyed by her roommate's snoring and smacking noises.

"Hey… Buffy, look!"

Willow pointed excitedly to a sheet of paper pinned to a bulletin board on the gazebo in the center of the quad. Buffy joined her, and her smile almost split her face.

"_Join Dr. William Milton for new English elective, British Romantic Poetry. Space limited. Tuesday/Thursdays at four pm_," Buffy read off the flier, exciting building with every word. "Oh my gosh… I'm free then! I could see him every day!"

Willow smirked at her, then frowned. "_If_ there's any space left… and it's an _elective_, Buffy. Usually that means you have to have certain basic prerequisites in the major, like Comp 101, maybe even Lit 101 too. And you haven't had those courses."

"But… maybe my best friend and super hacker buddy could help me?" the Slayer asked, rounding on Willow with a pleading expression. "Er… after we check that it _is_ the same Dr. William Milton and not some freaky old person."

"The computer should have that recorded, although what are the chances of there being _two_ Dr. William Miltons at this bitty extension college, especially since he's actually British," said Willow conspiratorially.

"Please, please, _please_ help me!" Buffy practically begged, wringing Willow's arm. "There's a computer lab, right? We can check that it's him and then enroll me? I'll buy your coffee for a month!"

Willow giggled. "Alright. Meet me at the library tonight at ten, and we'll see if their computers have access to enrollment."

* * *

Anticipation running high, Buffy scouted the campus for stray vamps and came up empty. A helpful student named Eddie – whom she remembered from Psych – pointed her in the direction of the library, and she scurried over there, arriving in time to see Willow enter. They sat down in front of one of the computers, and Willow's fingers clicked away, hunting through the college website until they found the course catalogue and enrollment information.

"Yep, it's him all right," Buffy said with a slightly plaintive sigh, reading through the biography of Professor William Milton attached to the course description. "Oxford… Doctorate in History, distinguished speaker on "Industrial Impacts to Rural England in the Nineteenth Century" … Willow, look at all these publications… He's got his _own_ poetry books, plus all these articles and other stuff he's written… Gosh…" To Willow's surprise, the blonde's face turned downcast. "Maybe he's really older than he looks. He _must_ be, to have written so much and have so many awards."

"I suppose so," Willow shrugged, unable to argue. "But hey," she said encouragingly, "at least he can't be as old as Angel."

"So I go from out-of-my-league _much_ _older_ man to just… out-of-my league _older_ man," Buffy smiled sarcastically. "Maybe by the time I graduate I'll find a man within my _decade_ that I like, hopefully one that it wouldn't be impossibly unprofessional to be involved with."

"That's it," Willow nodded with a grin. "Think positively."

"But this is all moot if there's no space left in the class, or if the prereqs won't let me sign up." Buffy bit her lip, her eyes scanning the screen anxiously for the enrollment details.

"You're in luck… One space left, no waitlist, and the prereqs are only recommended." A few clicks of the mouse later, and the name _Buffy Summers_ appeared in the list of students enrolled.

"I adore you," sighed Buffy, her head clunking onto Willow's shoulder.

* * *

At four o'clock the next day, Buffy sat primly in the middle of the poetry classroom, her smile a tiny bit smug since this time she had managed to get to the class _before_ Professor Milton. In he walked at that moment, still looking way too young and lickable to be a college instructor, this time in a crisp black button-down and slacks, his blood-red tie loose at his throat.

"Good afternoon, everyone," said Professor Milton, handing out sets of the syllabus to the students in the front row and then gesturing for them to pass them back throughout the room while he scrawled his name and the course title on the board like he had done the previous day. "I hope you all realize this is not intended to be a brush-off, easy A course. I expect your best, and I have nasty ways to coax it out of you if necessary. The point of this class is not merely to critique British romantic poetry. It is not to pick at it, or look down upon it. But neither is it to glorify it and set the works of Byron and Keats on a pedestal. The point of this course is to examine its structures, its schemata and… its recurrent themes…"

He slowed and then stopped altogether, his vibrant blue eyes zeroing on Buffy like the twin barrels of a shotgun. With only twenty-four other students in the class instead of eighty, the atmosphere didn't feel quite so hostile as it had when she'd been late to history, but she still felt like a bug under a microscope.

"Miss _Summers_," he said, his tone guarded. "How nice of you to join us. Did you register on the university website, or merely decide to grace us with your presence by surprise?"

Buffy quailed just a bit under the intensity of his stare, tinglies running up and down her spine. "Um… y-yes, I just sighed up last night."

Professor Milton licked his lips once… then again, and otherwise he was statue-still, not even breathing, as far as she could tell. Buffy had no idea why seeing her had provoked this kind of shock in him, but an instant later it was over.

He set his papers on his desk and inclined his head to her. "Indeed. Well… welcome to British Romantic Poetry, Miss Summers."

And with that he turned his back on her and continued scribbling on the chalkboard.

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Sorry for the long wait. I'm trying to jump-start my muse._

Some dialogue taken from Smallville: Aqua and BtVS: The Freshman, as well as Shakespeare's Sonnet 71 (my favorite). Also, random trivia, the town where Elizabeth Gaskell's novel _North and South_ takes place is named Milton, although Spike's false name is obviously taken from James's Smallville character, Milton Fine, a.k.a. Brainiac.

* * *

Chapter Four

_"__If you've dropped my class, I hope you haven't come to apologize."_

_Bloody hell… Summers again_. Spike almost swallowed his tongue. He stuck two fingers in his collar to slacken his already-loose tie, then scrawled another line of text on the chalkboard.

"Right then… open your books to the section on Shakespearean sonnets. Do I have a volunteer, someone willing to read one aloud? Any takers?"

Several students cautiously raised their hands, and Spike pointed at a boy near the front. "Go ahead. Pick one that strikes you, that holds meaning beyond the simple words on the page. Everyone… give Mr. Abrams your full attention."

The boy – whom Spike remembered from his role sheet as being named Parker Abrams – flicked through the selection of sonnets and very quickly stopped, his grey eyes skimming more attentively down the page. Spike leaned his hip against his desk, noticed that Buffy Summers was _still_ staring at him with her slightly glassy-eyed expression, and lifted his eyes to start counting ceiling tiles by the time the volunteer was ready to read. The moment the first syllable left his lips, Spike's patience became a rubber band stretched to the very limit before the snapping point. Sometimes being _nice_ was just so damned difficult.

"_Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate_ –"

"No, no, no…" Spike rolled his eyes and slammed his own copy of the poetry text shut after no more than two monotonous lines. _They always pick Sonnet 18. How many bloody times…_ "Sit down, Mr. Abrams."

Parker gawked at him for about three seconds and then resumed his seat, his ears a little red. Several girls in the class who had been giving him interested looks at the _beginning_ of class suddenly seemed _less_ interested.

"You weren't _readin'_ it. You were…" Spike floundered for a word dire enough to convey how badly the boy had been butchering the Bard, "_reciting_ it, like it was a grocery list or some tosh. Iambic pentameter isn't there to make the poem sound like an oarsman's dirge, s'not a drumbeat to keep rowers in line. It's a guide, nothing more. The rhyme is already _there_, so you don't have to force it."

Opening his own book, he thumbed to a dog-eared page.

"Just listen, now…" And he began to murmur the words of the poem in a voice that became increasingly husky, weighed down by a love he could not ever forget…

"_No longer mourn for me when I am dead then you shall hear the surly sullen bell give warning to the world that I am fled from this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell. Nay, if you read this line, remember not the hand that writ it; for I love you so that I in your fair thoughts would be forgot if thinking on me then should make you woe. O, if, I say, you look upon this verse when I perhaps compounded am with clay, do not so much as my poor name rehearse. But let your love even with my life decay, lest the wise world look upon your moan and mock you with me after I am gone._"

There were several sniffles and more than a few wet eyes when he finished. Spike solemnly closed his text and laid his book back upon the surface of his desk.

"Would anyone like to _share_ what that poem evoked in them? Did a story or situation come to mind? An emotion? Come now… I don't bite."

He smiled, a sad and slightly sinister grin, almost teasing.

"It sounds like a letter a prisoner would write before being executed," said Parker Abrams, perhaps in an attempt to redeem himself in the eyes of his female classmates.

"Perhaps, but remember that there is not only a speaker, but an _object_ of the poem. Who are they? What does the speaker want them to _do_?"

A girl whose hair had been highlighted at the ends shakily raised a hand, and Spike nodded to her. Her voice was soft and trembled severely as she spoke – not, it seemed, out of any fear of _him_, just a long-engrained habit of being told to be silent.

"I… I think th-the speaker of the poem is… is ill… is dying… a-and they w-want their loved one t-to move forward with th-their life."

"A fitting analogy, Miss Maclay," said Spike, indicating his head to her a second time before he continued glancing around the classroom. "Anyone else?"

Buffy Summers lifted her small, tanned hand into the air. Spike deliberated, waiting a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he met the gaze of her green eyes and pointed to her.

"The, um, speaker loves someone very much, but they know they're going to… to leave, or even die… and they want the person they love to completely forget about them, because they know that even saying their name would be painful. They'd rather that their lover move on and be happy than remember them and be sad."

"Good," he bobbed his head to her and began to turn around.

"But it doesn't work that way," Buffy continued, her head held high even though there was a somewhat sullen pout in her lower lip. "The poet can't just snap his fingers and get his lover to forget about him. And even if he goes away, she won't be able to completely forget about him."

_Hmm… gettin' too personal, are we, Slayer? A dissatisfactory parting of the ways between you and the Great Forehead, I dare say_…

Keeping his thoughts securely to himself, Spike just shrugged, "Perhaps. But the speaker tries nonetheless." He then plowed ahead with his plan for the class's schedule. "We're nearly halfway through the period so we should move on. All of you pair up, and agree on a Shakespearean sonnet to discuss for the next fifteen minutes. Read it aloud quietly and then write down what you think the critical theme is for the piece. We'll see if we can find some common threads among the works of this familiar poet."

He saw Buffy glance around her as students paired up… and the same realization dawned over both of them seemingly in the same instant. The class had an odd number of students. So _someone_ would be left out… and would have to pair up with _him_… and knowing his luck, that someone would be _her…_

_No soddin' way in all the dimensional realms remotely resembling hell_…

"Join a group," Spike said, giving Buffy Summers a curt little nod as he sat at his desk and opened his own copy of the poetry text. He watched her long enough to see a flicker of a frown on her face before she turned in her desk to team up with Tara Maclay and the boy sitting to her left. Tuning out the buzz of twenty-five little voices reading and discussing poems, Spike skimmed through his own copy of the texts, an series of amused bets running in his head about how many groups would pick the most popular or familiar Shakespearean poems. Parker Abrams had already eliminated Sonnet 18 by his botched reading, but Spike anticipated plenty of sighing and bemoaning over 116, and some confusion over the humor in 130.

And he was absolutely right. Twenty minutes and several misinterpreted sonnets later, Spike set his book down, glanced at the clock, and asked if there were any final questions.

"Are you related to John Milton, the poet?" asked a girl sitting along the left aisle.

Spike nearly laughed and considered telling her he'd picked his current alias out of a comic book, the assumed name of one of Superman's villains, but he had a more inflated story at the ready.

"No relation, actually," he said idly. "Just like a man would take the last name _Cooper_ if he was a barrel-maker or _Smith_ if he shoed horses, about four centuries ago my family managed several textile mills in a little village in Yorkshire. Mill-town. Milton."

He heard fidgeting across the classroom – backpacks jostling, pencils rubbing together - and glanced up at the clock again, knowing what he'd see.

"Due on Thursday, I want each of you individually to come up with three themes that are clear on at least three sonnets each. And when I say 'theme', give me a _complete thought_. Not just 'love'… but 'love is painful,' or 'love requires sacrifice'. Full page, single-spaced. A paragraph on each theme should suffice. Dismissed."

He watched the undergrads file out of the room, several of the female students and at least one of the males giving him an appreciative eye as they passed – all of whom, he soundly ignored – until the petite, blonde Slayer was the only one who lingered, as he'd expected she would be.

"A moment, Miss Summers."

Buffy looked as though she almost skipped a stair on her way to the exit door. She caught herself with a tiny gasp of surprise, her large green eyes jumping up to his face. Once again, Spike felt a prickle of wariness course down his spine, and his mouth watered a little as he drew in a breath to speak, catching her fragrance in the air.

"Why are you here, Miss Summers?"

"What?" she gaped back at him.

"Why… are you here? Since you're a freshman, I presume you haven't taken English Composition or World Literature courses, which are generally considered prerequisites to an elective course like this."

"The, um… the enrollment website said the prerequisites were optional," she said, almost whispering. Her feet fidgeted, as though she longed to escape.

"And you just… magically developed an interest in British poets? When, yesterday?" he muttered, his voice lightly laced with irritation, his hands clenching behind his back. "What is this _really_ about, Miss Summers?"

"I… I like poetry," she mumbled pathetically.

"Do ya, now?" said Spike, his accent deepening as his control started to slip. "Have you ever _had_ a poetry-exclusive literature analysis class before?"

She turned pink. "No…"

"Why are you _really_ here?"

* * *

Buffy had no answer for him, and began to feel increasingly small and stupid.

"Why did you spontaneously decide to add three credit hours of a sophomore/junior level course in a subject I doubt is in your major, Miss Summers?"

"I… I-I needed the hours," she fibbed. Although now that she realized it, there was a pinch of truth – adding the poetry class meant that if any of her other classes got too hard, like Psych, she could drop it and still remain a fully-enrolled student, not jeopardize her tuition loans.

He remained staring at her, motionless except for a dubious twitch of his eyebrow.

"A-and I liked how you teach… so, um, I figured getting another class w-with you would be better than a potluck teacher in th-the other classes I could've picked," she rambled on, hoping she sounded like she'd thought this through and not impulsively decided to increase her course-load because of a simple crush. _And you're just realizing this NOW?_ her conscience seemed to jeer. _Shesh, Buffy, why is it so impossible to be attracted to men your own age?_

"_Please_," he snorted. "I did little more than read the syllabus yesterday."

"Are you… going to kick me out of your class?" asked Buffy, genuinely concerned by the prospect. _Great. Two days into college and I'm already failing_.

Dr. Milton rolled his eyes. "No, Miss Summers. You haven't done anything to warrant that. I…"

He stopped speaking and glanced down towards the floor, shaking his head as though to clear his mind of unpleasant thoughts. "I think it's best if we avoid pointless hedging. So… if you've got somethin' you want to tell me, out with it."

Buffy's eyes widened. Was it _that_ obvious – how immediately, impulsively, and irrationally she'd crushed out on him? Okay, sure, she was coming off her first major relationship that had spiraled into badness, but not all of her feelings could be reduced to Angel-missage. She liked Professor Milton… _way_ too much.

"No, there's… there's nothing."

The professor regarded her dubiously for a few long seconds before he spoke, each word cool and clear, as though being recorded in a court of law. "You know what's worse than the fear of speaking the truth, Miss Summers? It's the fear of uncovering it. And I… am _not_ afraid."

And before she could pick her gawking jaw up off the floor, Dr. William Milton swept from the classroom, leaving a stunned Slayer behind him.

_To be continued…_


End file.
